The Trophy Case
by Liebling
Summary: “The young girl snorted, almost. Just almost. The display was rather funny, when you thought of it long enough; he just looked so 'in his place.' He looked as though he were born in front of that trophy case.” (D/G fluff)


~*~  
  
And there she was.  
  
Right outside the library sliding glass doors. She knew naught of why she was there, or why she even bothered to come to the library. Her grades were slipping at monstrous rates. But it didn't matter, because she was there, and she had just dug her heels in.  
  
And next to her, near the trophy case, the young man stood, his back to it. Covering the glass and trophies. Now she couldn't even look at the shimmering gold and tales of forgotten lore on the silver plaques. What wrongs.  
  
She looked towards him and instantly admired the beauty. His wispy glacier- white hair was falling delicately into his icy eyes, as he would gingerly push it away. And his black trousers were rolled up to his ankles. The young man's green and silver tie was slightly askew and his white polo shirt was unbuttoned. His shoes, a dull black were stomping lightly upon the concrete.  
  
The young girl snorted, almost. Just almost. The display was rather funny, when you thought of it long enough; he just looked so 'in his place.' He looked as though he were born in front of that trophy case.  
  
As though it was *his* trophy case.  
  
Of course, she knew better. Maybe. But that didn't stop her from thinking so.  
  
"What are you doing?" She couldn't help but ask she was very curious like that.  
  
He turned around slightly to face the trophies, "Just looking."  
  
"Oh," she said her salsa coloured hair falling into her face, "is your Father's name on any of those?"  
  
"Yes," he said taking off his tie and throwing it upon the marble, "come see."  
  
A bit nervously, she picked up her leathered book bag from the ground and walked over to him. Peeking over his shoulder she saw a green and silver cup. It read, in dark cursive "Slytherin." And underneath it there were the names of every member on the Quidditch team for that year.  
  
Lucius Malfoy: Seeker.  
  
It read.  
  
"You take after your father then?" She asked turning her head to face him. He looked coolly back at the cup.  
  
"In Quidditch, maybe. He's always been loads better at it then me, though."  
  
The young girl wrapped her scarlet cloak tighter around her shoulders, "I-" she stammered "-I think you're pretty good, myself."  
  
"Thanks Weasley," he said, "I thought you were part of Potter's Quidditch Fan Club?"  
  
She gave him a disapproving glance, "In case you haven't noticed he doesn't have a fan club-"  
  
He looked as though he were about to interject.  
  
"Well, he doesn't have a big fan club," she agreed, "and I'm not a member anyway." She finished quickly as she turned a bright tomato red. An old gene thing.  
  
"Well then," he replied caustically.  
  
"Do you come here often?" She asked, as a group of Hufflepuffs began milling around the entrance to the library.  
  
"Every once in a while. Gods, a lot of my family went here. You can trace it as far back as the start of Hogwarts. They were so brilliant," he said, almost nostalgically.  
  
"Typically, Malfoy, that's what the term 'pureblood' means," she snapped.  
  
"I suppose, I just never thought they were all that successful. All in Slytherin, the lot of them. Except for old Eloise who was in Ravenclaw, but she was ostracized from the family for ages." He said this as he looked down at the other trophies.  
  
"I come here often, to the library, you know. Not much to show for it, I suppose. You know, my Potions grade, it's just so far down I don't even think I can salvage it anymore," she said smiling grimly, "honestly."  
  
"That's life," he said in his typical sarcastic voice, "any of your family up here?"  
  
She looked at the trophy case and scanned the many trophies. "A few, I guess, I'm not sure, I don't look at it often."  
  
"You don't? I find it rather interesting, really."  
  
"Interesting?" She asked, "Depressing is more like it."  
  
"Why would it be depressing?" He asked in a clueless manner.  
  
"Want me to spell it out for you, Malfoy?" The girl said scathingly, "Look at this, my whole family, loads of them are some of the biggest names on those and trophies and plaques. Where's my name, Malfoy? Where's my name?" She said this, and it almost hurt to admit to him that yes, she did feel that way.  
  
He paused, his blond brow furrowing slightly. Digging his hand into his pocket he came out with a quill, still wet with black ink.  
  
Saying a simple spell the trophy case magically opened. He sat himself down upon the ground, pulled a trophy from the middle rack off, set it on the ground, and where the trophy once lay he began writing in perfect cursive:  
  
Ginny Weasley  
  
She gawked as she saw him write upon the dusty marble surface.  
  
"Good Gods, Malfoy," she admonished.  
  
Finishing with the "y" he pocketed his quill, put back the trophy in its place and locked the trophy case door.  
  
"There," he said, "your name's right there."  
  
"Erm. Right. There we go, now I'm fraternizing with you, I'm sure that's how my family would love to be remember me by." She said this almost coldly, but she meant it in a warmer way.  
  
"Oh well, what can I say?" He asked, obviously quite proud of himself.  
  
"There's your name," she said pointing to a Slytherin plaque.  
  
"So it is," he said.  
  
"I've got to be going," she said, "supper will be starting soon."  
  
"Bye," he said.  
  
And then, he did a silly thing, he leant towards her and he kissed her.  
  
Right on her cherry lips.  
  
Her book bag fell to the ground and her back was against the glass trophy case. He smelled good; he spelled of winter and parchment. Old parchment, almost ancient. And spices, especially cinnamon.  
  
The kiss was over in a heartbeat, and slowly she stepped back.  
  
"Thanks," she said as she began walking away.  
  
"Don't mention it," he called behind her.  
  
And she didn't.  
  
~*~  
  
La Fin. 


End file.
